


Dead of the Night

by Buggirl



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, tw:addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-03-14 22:18:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 12,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3427589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buggirl/pseuds/Buggirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Samson is suffering withdrawal symptoms and plagued by dreams of his end run to the Maker.  He's not sure if he's dreaming when the Inquisitor comes to him, before realising that her visits aren't an illusion.  Based on a Kink meme prompt.  More Angst than smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He likes to think that he’s ruminating on his weaknesses, but he’s been doing that for years now, why waste a minute more on mere ponderings. He’s happy to remain weak, to bend the easiest way for it requires little effort for much gain. He remembers the last time he tried to be a good man and how that backfired, spectacularly. You could say it was a defining moment, the beginning of the end.

The first time he sees her is weeks after judgment and she comes to Skyhold’s under croft. She doesn’t even look at him. She talks through him as though he’s invisible. She’s only interested in the armour, in the red crystal, it’s power and uses. The light falls on it and reflects on her face as she bends to inspect the piece. It makes her look like she’s wearing a mask. There’s a soldier with her, a personal bodyguard, he’s big, strong and stupid looking with a pasty mottled face, he doesn’t fail to notice him. He snarls at him, disgust and malice crosses his face, his hatred for him is simple and unambiguous. 

She asks the dwarf if I’m giving her trouble. Is there any development on the monstrous armour he carried. The dwarf mutters and rambles about turning up nothing yet then turning her attentions to him, calling him names. He doesn’t care. The names she uses are all accurate. ‘Sourpuss’, ‘stinky’ ‘surly’. 

He stares at the inquisitor, for an elf she seems plumper than most and it gives a unique look to her face. Not ‘beautiful’, not ‘ethereal’ or ‘otherworldly’ as he’d hear elves be called, she, in fact, looks more human than anything. A pretty sort still, with desirable round cheeks and dimples. He can’t guess her age, but she can’t be more than half his. He’d desire her if it weren’t for the dullness in the pit of his stomach. Physical gratification comes only from the bottle of blue he is rationed. Not even pitiful masturbation in the middle of the night can do it, his cock flaccid at the most vigorous of strokes, so instead he mouths quietly for the Maker to come and give him the red.

He coughs, but she fails to look at him but rubs the back of her neck. She knows he’s watching.

The second time she comes to him, it’s actually him she’s come to see. Despite being allowed freedom to roam Skyhold when he is not in the under croft, he’s back down in the dungeon or his cell. Today he watches the water cascade through the damaged part of the dungeons. He’s stood here numerous times. He contemplates jumping over the edge, but he knows he’s too much of a coward for that. 

He hears her enter thanks to the clank of armour of her bodyguard.

“Instead of watching it, you could maybe find another source of water and, perhaps, bathe?” She says disdainfully.

He ignores her.

“Samson.” She says curtly and he turns to face her. “You need to bathe. You look like shit, but you don’t have to smell like it.”

He looks at her unflinchingly. “So you’re going to force me to bathe? Can you smell me all the way up in your lofty apartment then, inquisitor?” His tone is sneering and he knows he speaks only wishing to offend.

“It’s not the stink.” She sighs, “It’s the endless complaining about how much you stink. Although standing here, I would have to agree with Dagna. You will bathe, at least twice a week if I were you. Maybe every day would be good. But, you know small steps.”

He grimaces and doesn’t respond. She scowls at him before leaving, throwing what looks to be soap at his feet. He kicks it over the edge of the building and looks down at his hands. He’s shaking like a leaf. 

_In the dead of the night, it comes to him. Whispers in the dark ask for his soul once destined for the Maker. Yes, his only reply._


	2. Chapter 2

The third time she comes to him he’s freshly bathed. More soap and scented oils placed in his cell and he is told, in no uncertain terms, that if he doesn’t use them, then the inquisitor will arrange for Cullen’s soldiers to do the job. She had told the messenger to tell him they would not be gentle. But he already knew that.

She stands outside his cell, “Cullen agrees your compliance can allow a second degree of freedom. If you wish.” She waits for a reply but gets none. “You can move to a room above the garden, the last one on the right. Some of the rooms are in need of some repair but this one is just a bit of mess.” She taps her foot impatiently. “So why are you still here? Someone has told you, yes?”

He remains lying on his bunk and still doesn’t reply.

The bodyguard kicks the end of the bunk and his feet hard and stands menacingly over him. “Get up.” 

He’s slow to stand but faces her wearily. The guard speaks again, “The inquisitor…” But he doesn’t finish before she interrupts.

“Samson, what the hell?” Her eyes widen when she scans his face.

His arms, the skin on his neck and face is covered in hives and blotches red raw that matches the bloodshot of his eyes.

“You did ask me to bathe, your Worship. The result is I seem to have broken out in a nasty rash. It seems that even soap scum is repelled by simple existence.” He waves his hand around. “Anyway, why would I move and give up all this?”

The guard with her sniggers under his breathe, “No less than you deserve.”

She’s furious then and turns to the body guard. “Go get the damn surgeon. Now.”

This makes him pull a smile, and despite the rawness of his skin, it’s a moment of grim happiness at the guard’s inappropriate joy at his predicament and his subsequent chastisement that he can’t deny himself. 

“At least I smell good.” He says and gives her a large toothy grin. “Maybe a little too floral than I’m comfortable with, but beggars can’t be choosers. Believe me, I know.”

She doesn’t smile, what he sees is concern in her eyes. 

He doesn’t like that.

She mutters something, an elven curse perhaps, before stomping off. He lies on his bunk after she leaves and closes his eyes, he can smell her, now that his own stink has disappeared. It’s a light fragrance that reminds him of forests at the base of the mountain, and flowers, of which he can’t recall the name.

_In the dead of the night, it comes to him. Whispers in the dark ask for his repentance in front of the Maker. No, I’m not ready yet, is his reply._


	3. Chapter 3

The fourth time he sees her is a few weeks later. He relents on Cullen’s suggestion and decides to investigate the rooms above the gardens but in order to do this he must pass Madame de Fer. The idea of him walking past the haughty mage is enough to fill him with some mirth. Small joys in the misery of his everyday life. 

Madame Vivienne is so unlike many of the mages he’s knows, the ones he befriended, the ones he likes and had liked. The ones he had failed, good intentions gone badly for the sake of the blue. She’s puffed up and proud. He’s is secretly delighted at her open disgust for him. 

When he enters the landing, he’s prepared to smile and wave, and prepared for that look he knows will be thrown in his direction. However, the inquisitor is with her, and he instead holds back, bows his head, and passes without comment or acknowledgement. He finds that he can no longer muster enthusiasm for sneering replies to the plump little elf they call Herald. He’s not sure why.

On the landing above the garden, he hears the bustle of people below. There is fragrance in the air. It has a sweetness he hasn’t appreciated in years. 

When he opens the door he sees the room is in disarray, but here he can tuck himself away, be forgotten and called only when needed. The idea of spending time here grows on him. He suspects his absence from the dungeon he’d made his home might be welcome too. His withdrawal from red leads to nightmares that he cannot shake, even though weeks have passed. He wakes sweaty and shouting several times a night. The jailor and others in the prison don’t like it. 

If he remembers anything about the red at all, it is that for a time, it gave him joy. It uplifted him and made him fight with purpose. The strength seemed merely a side effect.

The blue just isn’t enough and he can barely make it through the day without a second fix.

He doesn’t hear her enter this time. She has no bodyguard with her so the familiar clank of armour and chainmail isn’t following her. 

“So you’ve changed your mind then?” She says.

He turns and trips over himself as he faces her. He lands at her feet.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” She holds her hand out to him.

He looks away, shakes his head and refuses her outstretched hand. When he staggers to standing he drinks in the form of her legs and the swell of her hips. The outfit she wears is so tight. He sees it’s not her regular outfit, it has a high neck but a small window greets you with the flesh of her chest and he can’t help but stare.

“Has it been a few days? Since you had lyrium?” She asks.

He dismisses the question with a snort. “Twice a day, your worship. Cullen himself makes sure I get it.” He continues to stare until she places her hand there and with the other she grabs one of his. 

“You’re shaking. You’re not…” She asks.

The never ending questions begin to annoy him and he wrenches his hand from hers. “It’s nothing you need be concerned about, your Worship. I told you Cullen is overseeing this problem.” He says heatedly.

She takes a step back, simply nods and leaves without further word or question. He sniffs the air as she leaves and turns back to tackling the disarray of the room.

His first night in the comfort of this room he lays naked on the bed, freshly bathed, with something less irritating this time and his thoughts drift to the elf. The Herald, the Inquisitor. He closes his eyes and imagines his soiled hands on hers. He imagines them on her dainty elf feet and then slinking up her uncovered legs to her hips and thighs. He imagines they’re smooth, hairless, much like the face of the male elves he’s seen. He imagines his hands tracing circles on the round of her belly, teasing her with coarse fingers and watching as the muscles spasm with delight.

He’s hard. It’s the hardest he’s been in what seems like eternity all thanks to the little inquisitor and thoughts of her round smooth little belly. 

He strokes the shaft smiling at the rigidity he’s not felt for far too long. “Hello my friend, welcome back. It’s nice to feel you again.” He laughs, glad for the solitude of a private space.

It doesn’t take long for him to orgasm, fluid spurts onto his legs and fresh linen. He cries the Maker's name as he comes, something he’s done a thousand times. It’s different now. He means it this time.

_In the dead of the night, it comes to him. Whispers in the dark ask him to give in to temptation, all in front of the Maker. Yes, yes, if I can have her, a thousand times yes, is his reply._


	4. Chapter 4

She comes to him most days she is at Skyhold. This becomes fewer and fewer with all she has been asked to do in her role as inquisitor. He still counts each time. Today is thirty-one. He’s used to idea of her questioning him, of her being there, constantly in his face. He reserves the sneering comments he has for others. Instead, for her he saves jesting back talk, dismissive humour and occasional salient points on what is going on around Skyhold. It feels, in some ways, much like the old days. In this instance though, he’s the one being watched. 

She laughs at him, when he gives her guff. He notices the dimples on her face become deeper. Every time she comes to him he gets to drink in her skin, her smell, that of the unknown flower, her delicate straight nose and full lips. For the first time since being at Skyhold and for the first time, he notices her eyes. They are clear and lightly coloured, a hint of amber amongst green. Despite her odd un-elfish appearance, he concludes she is beautiful.

The red withdrawal doesn’t seem to be easing. Some days he can barely function. He’s denied more than two serves of the blue a day and sent to his room to sleep it off if he can’t cope, if he acts out or can barely stand. These are the worst of times. Lying on a comfortable bed doesn’t make it easier for him. In fact, he’s sure it’s more painful than sleeping on a hay bale. These are times he envies the man who called himself a warden and now sleeps in the barn. Being a liar and murderer on a redemptive path seems so much simpler. 

Today is not a good day, the first in at least 10 days. As usual, he’s been sent back to his room. Last time he felt this bad, he made incoherent threats to one of the chantry sisters in the garden courtyard. The soldiers had dragged him back to his room and set a guard on his door. He remembered she had come to him then and he had curled away from her gaze as he lay on the bed. She spoke soft soothing words, but he didn’t care, he didn’t need them, at least he thought he didn’t.

There’s a knock at the door and it’s her. He looks away from the light spilling in behind her. 

“Are you well enough to come with me?” She asks.

He doesn’t speak, just nods and folds his shaking arms in a tight grip in front of him.

They go down to the basement and find themselves outside the library door. 

“Wait here.” She says to the guard.

Inside the stuffy little room there’s dust and cobwebs which no one has bothered to clean. In all honesty, it feels a lot like his previous prison cell, but with fewer cobwebs. She pulls a book down and hands it to him.

“This is what you need. Page 42.” She says as she taps the cover with a finger from her small delicate hand.

He looks at her through blurry vision and flicks to the page in question. He squints at the text. It’s all about lyrium addiction. How it can be overcome, how special brews and potions can help reduce the need for it. He snaps the book shut. This is hardly the time. Can’t she see he’s in pain? That he’s not ready for this shit? That he’s too weak and wretched to be what she seems to want him to be.

“Not. Fucking. Interested.” He spits at her. He doesn’t remember feeling this much animosity towards her since he first arrived, he doesn’t remember being this angry or sneering when she attempted to help him.

She punches him hard then, surprising for someone with such little hands. It lands cleanly on his jaw. The book drops to the floor.

He shakes his head “you can take me back to wherever or leave me here. If you leave me here I’ll burn every fucking book in this library.”

“Why do you do this? Get out then.” She yells at him. “Go back to your room. Lie in the haze of torment of your own making. I thought better of you. I was mistaken.” 

He sets his jaw tight “This is not the day to ask this of me. Your, _Worship_.” The name drips scornfully from his lips. He heads angrily back to his room unaware of the pitiful look she throws in his direction.

Later, when most people have retired for the evening he returns to the library. She’s left the book where he dropped it. He bends to pick it up and turns it over in his hands. It’s ragged and dusty but in good enough condition. 

“I’ll take your fucking book.” He says aloud and tucks it under his arm and heads back to his room. 

Tonight he dreams of hurting her in the most brutal of ways. He wants to fuck her raw and with little care. To bite and gnaw at her breasts to lick her cunt till she begs for mercy. But when he wakes, drenched in cold sweat, he sobs sorry and murmurs her name.

_In the dead of the night, it comes to him. Whispers in the dark ask him pray to the Maker for promises delivered. Not yet, I’m weak and not worthy, but soon, is his reply._


	5. Chapter 5

He stops counting after that, because she stops coming to him. He sees her, but she never stops and never seeks his attention. He misses her presence, their talk, her smell, that of the unknown flower, the curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts and on his bad days, it hurts more because he can’t even hide his shame from her, he has no one. When he moans and cries out in pain during the night, when the blue doesn’t cut it anymore, there is no one.

He’s in hell. It marks his fourth month here at Skyhold.

It doesn’t help that today, of all days, they’ve allowed Dagna to take ‘samples’. Skin, hair, scrapings of Maker knows what. He’d rather be listening to a chantry mother and her sermonising than listening to the inane prattle of the dwarf he has begun to loathe.

He’s sitting on a stool in the under croft with his shirt off and he notices the wasting of his muscles once toned and ready for battle. Mentally, he’s become weaker, but no red and the fact they won’t even let him near a sword or training ground means his body is softer than it’s been in a long time. He tries to maintain a semblance of fitness. Sit-ups, push-ups, chin lifts and makeshift weights. But like the blue, it just isn’t enough. What he wouldn’t give to swing a great sword around again. The truth he tells himself is that he has nothing left to give to get that privilege. 

He flinches as Dagna cuts him with a scalpel “Maferath’s balls woman. What the hell are you doing?”

Dagna throws the scalpel down in frustration. “Just for once, Samson, can you just let me do something without complaining?”

“And just for once, dwarf, can you do something and remain silent?” He tilts his head a scowl forming on his lips.

“My name is Dagna. You can call me that.” She carries a disgruntled frown but changes back to chirpy in an instant. “You can go, I have enough to work with at the moment, but don’t stray far.” 

He shakes his head. The torture of her temperament never ending.

He puts on his loose weaved shirt and leaves. 

He’s told not to linger in the great hall, guests and dignitaries are there, with a façade of respect to maintain he understands his place in the running of the inquisition. Once, as a proud senior Templar he would have been welcome. He walks past the dwarf with all the stories, Varric. It seems a lifetime ago that he was in Kirkwall and he met him and his friend, the Champion. He heard she was left in the fade at the hands of The Nightmare in favour of a warden known to be king Maric’s bastard. He wonders if an order such as the grey wardens would even take him. He’d also heard that it was Varric’s brother Bartrand that discovered the red.

He doesn’t know whether to thank him or punch him.

_In the dead of the night, it comes to him. Whispers in the dark ask him if he wants the red so bad he’d sacrifice those he loves. Yes, is his reply._


	6. Chapter 6

It’s on the ramparts that she comes to him next. The first time since he’d threatened to burn Skyhold’s library down.

He’d been taking a walk after leaving the under croft. Today he stops outside Cullen’s tower. He actively avoids him most days but he gets less worried by that the longer he’s here. He sits down on a bench in the sun and closes his eyes. It actually feels good to be in this spot, away from the jabbering dwarf, the smells of the garden he enjoys but they begin to remind him of things he cannot have, things he can never have again. Everyone can have the sun. Liar, traitor, thief, murderer, even a disgraced former Templar.

He hears voices. It’s Cullen and the inquisitor. She’s leaving his quarters. He stares at her and him and catches a touch between them, her smile and his. The smiles disappear when they spot him. Cullen frowns and returns to his apartments. 

The inquisitor comes to him. He remains seated.

“Samson. I didn’t think I’d see you in this part of Skyhold.” Her voice washes over him like the sunlight.

“Small pleasures to bask in the winter sun, your Worship.” He says and blinks back the brightness.

“May I join you?” She asks.

He holds his tongue, tempted to ask if he has a choice. He motions to the spot beside him. She sits close. The smell of her hits him, an intoxicant that he cannot escape. An involuntary sigh escapes.

She laughs, it’s throaty and delicious. “What was that for? The sigh I mean?”

“Nothing really.” He replies. He’s lying of course. The sigh is for her.

“I’m sorry.” She says.

He looks at her narrowing his eyes and tilting his head. “Sorry for what?”

“That we have to play this game. That you might have been better off in prison or exiled elsewhere.” She replies.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about inquisitor. Are you feeling guilty for not paying enough attention to one of the most hated men in Skyhold, if not Fereldan and Orlais? Or perhaps the opposite.” He raises his eyebrow suggestively. 

She laughs, “You give yourself too much credit, Samson. I’m sorry for…” She shakes her head. “Nevermind.”

She stands to leave but before she goes she lays a hand on his chin pulling his face up to her and bends down to kiss him full on the lips. She remains looking into his eyes after a small smile lifts one corner of her mouth.

“Your eyes look better. Not so red. Enjoy your time in the sun.” She says smiling.

Then she is gone and he wonders what hit him.

Tonight he has the shakes badly and he looks at the second vial of blue on his bedside table. He decides not to take it. Instead, he’ll hoard it, just in case. Today he thinks he can get past it.

He tries to sleep but thoughts of what happened today and the shakes from the lyrium keep him awake. It doesn’t take too many reflections of her naked to be hard as he’s ever been. Even though he thinks this desire has been perpetuated by hallucination. He’s getting close to climax and he can still feel the taste of her on his lips. He pictures them kissing once again as he brings her body closer to his. Naked, sweaty, and kissing, so much kissing. Their bodies entwined in lustful guttural need. He wants all of her, to kiss from top to bottom stopping mostly in the middle. He wants to bury himself in her sex. The thought of her smell of arousal and that damn flower makes him harder still.

He is going to be patient. She’ll come to him again, of that he’s sure. Tonight, it’s not the Makers name he shouts when he orgasms, it’s hers, with the all the sweetness and warmth of the winter sun.

_In the dead of the night, it comes to him. Whispers in the dark ask him his heart desires, is it the red or the blue? Neither, is his reply._


	7. Chapter 7

He wonders where she is today, he hopes to see her again but then he really shouldn’t, it’s a ridiculous notion meant for tepid romance novels or Varric’s potboilers. He’s sure he’s hallucinating. The inquisitor did not kiss him, did not leave him wanting more. It was simply too much sun and the lyrium.

The fucking lyrium. It gives him no pleasure, the days of being unable to function, increase in volume, partly due to his hoarding. It just doesn’t do what the red does. He’s been taking part doses for at least a month now, hoping to have enough that would give him a dose that would see him exit this world.

A flash of green in the direction of Haven distracts his thoughts. He sees the hole opening back in the sky, “So it’s time.” He says aloud and makes his way to the under croft.

Soldiers are running around everywhere. There’s no snide conversations from those in the Great hall about him they’re too busy discussing the giant hole in the sky. When he arrives. Dagna is in a flap.

“Can you believe it?” She laughs and adds. “Of course you would!”

He drowns out the dwarfs babbling with thoughts of her. He wonders if she will survive, he knows that half Cullen’s forces are still cleaning up in the Arbor Wilds, why he left them there is anyone business but seemed a stupid thing to do for so long. 

“You’re not a general anymore.” He mutters under his breath.

“What was that?” Dagna asks.

He waves away her question “Nothing, it’s nothing.”

Probably a good thing he’s not the general in this case. He’s only a washed up villain who depends on the continuing mercy of the Inquisition for his survival. He wonders if Calpernia could have done better job. He’s not sure, she might have succeeded where he failed, but given who this inquisition is, whom they follow, he has doubts that would have been the case. 

When he can, he keeps a watch on the sky. People buzz around him carrying messages and paper and today, he knows, the tavern will be empty. Not that he’s ever been for one here in Skyhold. He’d been told if he went there when he was granted freedom, someone would inevitably start a fight. Given he still had some strength at the time, that was more to protect others rather than to protect him.

So, after the day is done, he heads to the tavern for the very first time. The only ones there are the bar keep Cabot and his help, busily loading supplies. 

“Drink, friend?” 

He laughs. “I don’t think anyone has called me friend in long time. But yes, I’ll have one.”

Cabot nods and passes him ale in a large tankard. “I think you and your forces are about to have your ass kicked, to be honest.” Cabot’s assistant, another dwarf, laughs loudly.

He simply smiles. “You would think that. You are most likely right, ‘friend’.” 

Cabot’s brow furrows in confusion.

He decides rather than explain he’d best drink alone and finds a corner near the entrance. It’s a bitter brew and if he hadn’t watch Cabot pour, there could be a mix of dwarf spit for added flavour. 

He sits quietly, ruminating. Something he said he would no longer do given his first week here, but given what was happening several miles away, it seems important to reflect. He drains his tankard and stands to get another when the shouting begins. A growing roar from outside the building, until several soldiers burst through the doors yelling ‘Victory’!”

So it was done, she and the inquisition triumph. It feels bittersweet.

He slinks away to his room, to his hoard of lyrium.

When he arrives, there are soldiers there. One holds up all the lyrium he has, 12 part vials in all. The other punches him so hard he passes out.

_In the dead of the night, it comes to him. Whispers in the dark ask him are you ready for the Maker’s judgement? Yes, is his reply._


	8. Chapter 8

When he wakes, he’s lying on the rug of the room. He staggers to standing, surveys the damage before propping up the table and then the chair. The leg is splintered, the chair useless. The bed looks all right but the armoire, although still standing, has been hacked with axes. The bedside table is on its side. It doesn’t look much different to when he first came here. He’s not angry. That sort of feeling for trivialities such as this is long gone. 

He looks for the lyrium and spots the smashed vials on the carpet near where he woke. He feels the sodden material underneath. There would be time to do it all again if needed. If he had the balls for it.

He cleans himself up, as much as he can, the egg on the side of his head large and notable. From the landing, he hears music and laughter and he gets a whiff of that comforting aromatic smell from the garden below. 

He heads into the galley above the great hall, and he sees there’s a party. “Shit. I’ve been out of it that long?” No one bothered to find out where he was. Not even Dagna. Madame de Fer is not here, so he leans casually over the railings and looks down on the guests. No one notices him.

It’s a long time before he spots her amongst the crowd. Standing next to the qunari, Maker, she looks small. She’s wearing that outfit, the one with the heart shaped window at her breast. It invites you to stare, to want to touch. He finds he’s aching to trace his finger around that heart shaped hole, to feel the skin underneath.

Time passes but he doesn’t tire of watching her. One hour then two. Normally he’d be pacing for his next shot of lyrium but not now, not when there’s music and her. It’s bittersweet, a reminder of happier times, when he wasn’t a monster.

He catches a glance and she smiles up at him. He wants to go to her, congratulate her, but he thinks it’s is a stupid notion, given who he is, what he has done, so he simply nods. How in such a short time he’d come to admire her is unfathomable. When the lyrium gnawed at his soul and the night terrors bought back memories of the fate of his men he thought of her and only her. It cannot be four months? His head begins to feel light so he leaves now before he does something he may regret. 

Not long after there is a soft rap at the door.

“Come in.” He says wearily. He attempts to sit but decides it’s not a wise choice to make

The door creaks open and he’s given a vision, the heart shaped window on her chest, the pale flesh in the background. Light shines from behind her and for a moment she doesn’t look like a warrior mage, but a seraph of the Maker. He catches the scent of her, and his heart thumps loudly in his ears. It’s possible that it’s the blow to the head. His reaction a response to a dream of his own making, but that doesn’t matter. Whether dream or not, she’s come to him.

Her expression drops from serenity to one of annoyance as she enters and studies the surrounds. “What in Thedas happened here?”

He slurs his response, “A spot of redecorating. The soldiers thought it needed refreshing.” 

“Samson, this isn’t… don’t be so blasé about it.” she moves towards him and sits on the bed beside him.

The sudden warmth and her scent become stronger and his head pounds with it. What hell is that damn flower? He notices the cut on her chin and the surrounding bruise. It’s starting to turn a deep purple shade. 

She reaches out and lightly touches the lump on the side of his head. “I’ll talk to Cullen.”

He flinches and sits up “No, don’t. There’s no need. It’s really not something you need worry about.” He grabs her hand. “You have other priorities.”

She shakes her head. “These are my soldiers. I won’t condone this sort of behaviour. If it happens again, you will let me know. Yes?”

He nods, but he’s lying. If it happens again, he has no plans to tell her. He shifts so he’s sitting now. He’s lost grip of her hand. “Shouldn’t you get back to your party?”

“It’s almost dead. But…” She stands and faces him. 

He gets to drink her in again. How curved she is, so unlike other elves, but the design of her makes him twitch. “How in Andraste’s name did I get here? How did I become this man, this villain?” 

Her brow furrows, then relaxes. He sees in her face that she understands.

“People keep telling me it’s the will of the Maker that I’m here. Do you still believe, after all that’s happened?” She asks.

“I never stopped believing.”

“Then perhaps the Maker has plans for you too. That’s why you’re here.” That’s when she kneels before him, her hands on his knees, her plump lips facing up searching for his. He doesn’t hold back despite how dazed he is by the offer before him. It’s not like the kiss on the ramparts, it’s not a dream, it’s real. He recognises the need behind it, because he has it too.


	9. Chapter 9

He’s dizzy and he hopes he doesn’t pass out. He can’t remove his shirt quick enough as she motions to sit astride him.

Their kissing becomes feverish not unlike that of his withdrawals. The difference is the longing and want is voluntary. He’s wanted this for most of his time here.

He breaks from the kiss so he can trace his finger in that heart shaped hole at her chest. He fingers the rim of material delicately and playfully and listens to the sounds of her breath as she watches him simultaneously wide eyes and rapid blinks. She grabs his hand and kisses the palm and each finger, laying her face in its cradle like a cat wanting stroked.

He obliges and traces the cut, the bruise on her chin, with finger and thumb. She flinches.

“Does it hurt?” He asks.

“Only a little.” She replies. 

He replaces his finger with his lips, first on her chin before tracing a line of kisses down to the little heart shaped window. 

He breathes in her scent. It’s lush, yet simple, not overbearing, earthy with a sweet ending that reminds him of sugared fruit from his childhood. The name of the flower he associates with the fragrance still evades him. He grazes the soft skin with the rough on his upper lip and chin. He feels her shiver underneath the touch. He stirs.

The top clasp he gently undoes, and peels back the collar to reveal more of her neck. Smooth skin dotted with beauty marks. He makes efforts to kiss each one. 

He unbuttons the rest of the top and slides his hands around smooth bare skin. The bindings around her breasts are quickly removed. He brings her close again as he cups one of her breasts.

It’s clear what is happening, it’s no illusion or hallucination to him anymore, it’s real as the glass he’s walked over to get to her. Every step a painful cut at his consciousness. He’d give anything for the red, but not this, Maker not this.

They’re now skin on skin his rough against her smooth. Her breasts squish against him in the tight embrace. Just as he wants, there’s kissing, so much kissing. Soft sweet kisses light and airy, wet open mouthed kisses where tongues dance and play, hard kisses ones that speak of base needs and hard bodies against soft.

She extricates herself from their entanglement and sits at the side of the bed. He sits back resting against pillows that are softer than what he deserves and watches as she leans down to remove her boots. The laces and buckles look complicated so he quickly moves jumps up then kneels down on the floor to help her. 

She bends down and he steals a kiss before pulling one boot off, another kiss stolen before the next boot. She smiles and sits back. The clasp of her pants is next. He can’t remember the last time he did this for a woman. The material slides smoothly over her thighs and once again he’s greeted with scent, this time the musky sweet scent of a woman’s arousal. He closes his eyes and mutters a sweet curse under his breath. When he opens them, she is peering down at him with heavily lidded eyes. He smiles a one sided wry smile. He caresses her legs and glides his hands leisurely up to her underpants, delicately stroking the front teasingly before hooking his fingers into the lace at the sides. He slides them down over her legs unhurried. He knows that taking his time is making her ache for him, he can read it in her flushed face, her open mouthed pout and the way she trembles at each delicate caress.

He knows he aches for her. He’s as hard as diamond tempered by time and forged by millennia of pressure.


	10. Chapter 10

He lays kisses along the length of her legs, one leg then the other slowly edging them apart. When he looks up at her, she’s reaching for him like a child trying to get to a toy on too high a shelf. He chuckles and continues to lay torturous kisses up the length of her legs. When he reaches her thighs, he moves his hand to part her sex.

He kisses her mound. She has delicate amounts of hair covering her and its soft compared to the bristles of his face. Maker she’s so wet. He slips his tongue between her folds. Lapping gently at the delicate skin surrounding this elven treasure. He finds her clit and teases it. He feels her slow grind into his face. He pokes his tongue inside her cunt and the juices flow over the tip.

He snakes a hand up to breasts and gently tickles then squeezes. She moans, its soft and sweet and it gladdens his heart to hear her bliss.

He continues his ministrations, soft and delicate then firmer. He focusses on the movement of her hips, how she shudders when he hits the sweet spot, how her hands paw at him like a cat. He continues to lick and kiss and then he inserts a single finger into her, then a second. He wants to feel her come and is rewarded by her pushing against his thrusting fingers. She’s bucking under him now and moaning yes over and over. When she comes, she stills for a moment before her cunt pulses around his fingers, he continues to lick softly and she spasms with each stroke of his tongue.

There’s no way he could get any harder but when he looks at her glistening with a mild film of sweat and glowing from orgasm, her soft form hiding her tremendous strength it’s enough for him to try and temper his thoughts. He doesn’t want to come yet. He wants the joy of replacing his fingers with his cock, of being inside her and kissing her throat, her breasts.

He stands and she shuffles to the side of the bed and he watches eagerly as she undoes the button of his pants. They fall to the ground and his underclothes rapidly follow, releasing his now full erection. She lays her small hands around his cock and begins to stroke delicately. She lays a kiss at the tip.

It’s too much for him, he wants her mouth around his shaft, around the rest of his length, but he’s trying to be practical about this. He takes her hands and motions for her to get back on the bed. She understands and does as asked.

As he crawls over her, he once again spends time teasing her with kisses as he goes. She gives a little laugh when he reaches her belly. He sucks each breast in turn. His length slides up her leg to her entrance and he enters with one quick thrust. A small gasps escapes her as he continues to a gentle pace. She’s so tight and wet and he wants to kiss her and bring her to orgasm again but he doesn’t think he can hold out that long. The familiar tightening hits him and he increases his thrusts. 

She’s moaning loader now and calling his name, “Samson, Samson.” So yielding and honeyed that it no longer sounds like a curse. He kisses her hard and feels how accommodating she is to him. How forgiving she is, how much affection shimmers in her eyes. In his own heart, he knows this is good, how could it not be?

When he comes, it’s like the sweetest of bursts. The power he had as a Templar is nothing compared to this. It’s at this point the name of the flower he’s been haunted by flashes in front of him.

His moan is guttural and base as he spills into her. His last shudder and thrust is accompanied by kisses along her neck and a whisper into her ear. 

“Andraste’s Grace.”  
 


	11. Chapter 11

They lie still against each other, their breaths slowing. He’s still inside her. His face buried in her neck.

When he lifts his head to look at her, his vision is blurred but it doesn’t detract from the beauty he sees, because he knows that her real beauty is inside. The desire to forgive a monster, to take him to bed and to love him.

The addiction clouded his mind and stole whatever was left of goodness in him. She returned it to him.

Andraste’s Grace indeed.

He kisses her then, slowly and softly, the weariness in the kiss unmistakable, but he wants her to know what it meant to him to be with him tonight, of all nights.

He rolls off her, regretting the parting and the loss of their joining. She nuzzles into the crook of his arm. She fits perfectly.

It takes mere minutes after closing her eyes for him to hear her fall into sleep. The soft regular breathes blow cool on his chest.

He ponders the future of this, but he knows there’s unlikely to be too much more. There are others more deserving of her than he and he knows he or she will have to leave soon. His exact fate isn’t known, and he still has addiction to deal with, but he doesn’t care. Tonight he feels at peace with many things, for he has her nestled here in his arms now.

He kisses the top of her head and closes his eyes.

_In the dead of the night, it comes to him. Whispers in the dark ask him to create doom upon all the world. Never whilst she lives, is his reply._


	12. Chapter 12

After the fall of Corypheus, nothing much changes. There’s unease about his presence at Skyhold, but Dagna still has use for him so he’s here for a while longer at least.

She comes to him sporadically, too busy doing inquisitorial duties, and that suits him. He doesn’t want anything they have to soil her name and paint her in a negative light.

She’s not sure about that, she doesn’t care what others know, she tells him she’s just a knife ear who’s gotten too far above her station. Someone in the wrong place at the right time.

He shakes his head and tells her, she is much more than that, hasn’t what she has done, what’s she’s been through to get here, told her that? She laughs. It shows in her face that she recognises that it has to be this way, so for now their ‘relationship’ if that’s what it is, remains hidden. 

He’s sure people know. The spymaster does at least, for she comes to him one day to ‘chat’. He tells her he’s just her ‘dirty little secret’ and that the Lady Lavellan will tire of him soon enough. Lady Nightingale isn’t convinced but it’s written in her face that if she thinks a line has been crossed, if the little elf inquisitor has been influenced by him in any way, he’ll meet with more than voices and nightmares during the night. She departs with a mask of civility that outshines even those of the winter palace. If Madame de Fer was still here, she would know too.

He goes days without seeing her, and in some way it’s for the best. There are times when the clawing need for lyrium has him angry, jaded and more surly than usual. His gut wrenches with a need that never departs. He doesn’t want her to see his pain any more than he wants to feel it.

Other times it’s as if she never leaves his room. 

It’s here, within four walls that he feels like the man he once was, the good man, the kind Templar watching over his charges with more care than many others have. In the nights he can’t sleep and she is at his side he watches her quietly, her breathing bringing a calm aura.

There are times too when they are insatiable. More often than not it’s after some time apart. The hunger for each other so gnawing that it’s though they are just animals gone too long without food. He knows he is anyway.

He gets to have her pretty mouth all over him. Many times he’s sat back to marvel at her, when she’s taken him to the hilt, her mouth wide and soaking with his fluid, the eyes hazy and brimming with tears from her efforts. When she comes up for air and simply asks for more, he’s overwhelmed with lust. It’s at that point he takes her, from behind, rough without malice, fondling her breasts, feeling for her clit eager to make her come too. 

And praise to the Maker, when she comes, it’s often with his name on her lips.

When he’s spent, sweaty, messy and utterly devastated by pleasure they lay together and she holds him tight, tells him of forgiveness, of redemption and that she loves him. 

It’s only then that he feels that the world cannot touch them.

_In the dead of the night, it comes to him. Whispers in the dark ask for him to return to the blackness. No, no, no, is his reply._


	13. Chapter 13

Four years have passed and he’s been without lyrium for 2, but there is not a day that passes where he wouldn’t say yes to it all again. If it were red … he tries not to think about it.

Lucky then that the red has been vanquished from the land, like the blight before it.

The little house he stands in in small but not quite humble. There’s luxury here, evident from the quality of the furnishings. A solid Orlesian table and chairs, a couch of simple design but still luxurious, the bed is carved ornate wood from Rivain, velvet coverings and pillows scatter its surface.

It seems strange in a way, but knowing who he is, knowing who comes here, to this quiet part of the Hinterland, it’s to be expected.

Since being allowed to leave Skyhold he looked for something that would not make him stand out, that would allow him to be useful but also invisible. He could no longer take up arms, or be a prominent merchant where temptation to lyrium might come his way. She makes sure he gets what he needs not necessarily what he desires. He never sees her watchers but he knows that they’re there.

He takes up blacksmithing. It’s an honest trade where physical hard labour is part of its makeup. It helps then that when his arms burn with fatigue of pounding iron and steel he forgets the pain in his gut and the haze of his mind. He would say he has managed to create beauty from the punitive reality of addiction. It’s allowed him to transform the ugly unformed lumps of ore to cold lacklustre ingots then forge them into shimmering swords, gleaming shields and sparkling daggers.

He made her a dagger fit for an Empress, and even though she never uses it, it stays on her belt always.

She comes to him when she can, and it’s just as it should be. Quiet and discreet, her reputation never tarnished by his sullying presence. He looks forward to her being here for he isn’t quite the same without her. He goes to dark places when she’s not here to nestle into his arms.

There’s a carriage coming he can hear it and he knows it’s her.

When she arrives, she’s dirty from the road, but still in her finery. He doesn’t care when she drops all that she carries and falls into his arms. The tyranny of distance dismissed with a passionate kiss. Lips soft and yielding, a hunger grows in their bodies.

“Do you want something to drink?”

She shakes her head.

“To eat then?” He asks mischievously.

She smiles and raises her brows. They both laugh. “Well then then, I guess you’re weary and need sleep then.”

“Stop it you tease.” She replies.

Their lovemaking falls into an easy pattern. Kissing is the biggest thing. Both of them could do it all day and not worry about taking it further. Soft warm and loving, more passionate should it be required or simple like a peck on the cheek. Sex is more basic now than when they first were together, neither of them trying to impress. It’s simply the comfort of known partner, of a drive and basic needs satisfied before sleep locked in each other’s arms. During his withdrawals, things were bad for a time, but she hardly minded, instead preferring to spend time in a chair watching over him whilst he writhed through the worst of the pain.

He knows he doesn’t have long left. So does she. He told her less than 5 years ago that the corruption would take him eventually. There would be no escape, a punishment and release at the same time he calls it.

So they take what they can and he’s mindful that he wants to remain the better man he has become.

Things are good.

_In the dead of the night, it comes to him. Whispers in the dark ask have you made peace with world and your place in it? Almost, is his reply._


	14. Chapter 14

He never thought he’d allow the chantry back into his life. The one place he had forsaken, but the one place that could care for him on his end run to meet the Maker. Despite his intact faith, he had not attempted to seek reconciliation with its vessel.

_Vessel._

The word would always haunt him. If only he had not been on the losing side, if only had he followed others and rebelled against the red, if only he had not led his men to a certain death. His hunger for blue had made him weak. It wasn’t much of a stretch to bend for the red. 

His deterioration is faster than he first thought and he doesn’t want her to worry, so through the good grace of Lady Lavellan he allows them to visit. 

Today it is Sister Beth who is here. He’s grown attached to the chatty dwarven sister. He likes her, and he likes the fact there are now other races allowed in the chantry. Divine Victoria has made sure of that.

“How are we today, Ser Samson?” Beth asks.

He gives her a smile “Well enough to cause you some trouble I expect, dwarf.”

Sister Beth shakes her head “You mean like every other time I come here then?”

He laughs. “You’re lucky then, because there was a time when I wasn’t so forgiving of meddling overly chatty dwarven women.”

“So you have told me, numerous times in fact. Well today, I have some good news. Lady Lavellan will be here.”

He laughs and she looks at him quizzically. “Good, good." he says. He still can’t believe that people don’t know about them, even now. He’s most surprised at Beth, considering she’s been coming here for months now. Lady Lavellan has not been a stranger.

Beth stays for most of the day. Helping him in and out of bed and then helping him to bathe and dress for Lady Lavellan. _His_ Lady Lavellan.

He looks out to the shadows falling across the garden from the fading sun, “Given the time of day, something stronger than tea before you leave, Sister?”

“You know me too well, my dear man.”

He chuckles at that, thinking of how far he’s come to be called ‘dear man’. Inside he pours her a glass of Antivan brandy that he has on the shelf and hands it to her with shaking hands.

They say little and Beth soon departs.

He is resting next to the fire too weak to muster strength to do much else when he hears her carriage. He rises with what little energy he has so that he can greet her.

When she comes through the door, she looks to him and smiles. Her shock at his condition though is difficult to hide. He can see it in the lines of her face. She ushers him back to his seat by the fire and drops her things in the bedroom before taking a place on the floor next to him, her head on his lap.

“I miss you.” She says.

“You always do.” He replies.

They remain that way for a long time whilst he gently strokes her hair. 

The silence is broken finally with a question. “Why?” He asks.

“Why what?” She replies placing her chin on his knee.

“Why did you show concern for me? Why did you personally attend to me when I first came to Skyhold? Why not send your's or Cullen’s soldiers to deal with me? Why did you come to my bed?”

She laughs. “I guess we never covered those things did we?”

“No we did not, Lady Lavellan.”

He can see she’s thinking and strokes her face. “I thank the Maker you did though.”

She grabs his hand and kisses it before speaking. “Years ago, before any of this, before the blight even. My clan were doing things that, well Dalish people do, moving around from somewhere to somewhere else when a human arrived at our camp. He was pretty dishevelled and not in a good way, I think he’d been mauled by a bear or something. My clan have generally had friendly relations with humans so our healer took him in. We were all curious as to who he was and I was young at the time and just coming into my magic. I was super curious about him, he just had this… smell. As it turned out, he was an apostate, on the run from the circle. I can’t remember the town or city though. Anyway, he was with us a few days and on one day after the hunters had left, he turned. Became a demon. He attacked our healer and chased the rest of us into the surrounding woods. Then a group of Templars came for him. They saved us. By the time he had been slain, the hunters had returned and our healer was dead. We were all shaken up by what happened. The Templars were very kind to us. I remember one came and found me where I had hidden and drew me up on to his horse. My view of Templars has always been affected by this.”

“But I wasn’t that kind of Templar when you came across me. I was so far removed from a Templar…, what was a Templar, that I’m still not clear…”

She looks up for a kiss and he leans forward to comply. 

The familiar warmth of her lips on his brings a soothing calm to him.

“When you came to Skyhold. I saw how far you’d fallen. Cullen told me of your time in Kirkwall and that you were a good man once. Even he couldn’t overlook that. He helped me see that you were meant to be a good man again. My judgement reflected that. It was that simple.”

“Ah the merciful, Inquisitor. Yes.” He says and smirks.

“Oh wipe that smile from your face.” She replies. “What got me into your bed… “

“Ah now we’re getting to the good part.” He rubs his hands together playfully.

She smacks his knee lightly. “What got me into your bed that was something that caught me unaware. Defeating Corypheus was no mean feat. When everyone was celebrating, it was the last thing I felt like doing, being at a party, being all, ‘inquisitorial’. I can’t explain it other than that. I sought you out merely to talk. And then, well, we know what happened.”

He smiles wider now. “Yes we do.”

“Being with you then felt like the most natural thing I could do after it all.”

He reaches out to stroke her hair but she grabs his hand again and holds his palm against her cheek. “And then I loved you.”

He simply nods, grins, and kisses her hand. 

She goes back to sitting by his feet her head in his lap. 

It’s comforting and warm and he finds himself dancing in and out of sleep his hand occasionally resting on her face or playing with her hair. He leans down for intermittent kisses.

“Are you hungry?” she says after a while.

“A little bit.” He replies weakly.

“Well let me get us a tray and we’ll sit here by the fire. It won’t be fish and egg pie I’m afraid.”

He let’s go of her hand as she stands to head to the kitchen.

He turns his attention back to the fire and watches the embers dance and sizzle. He scratches his chest, no longer captive to inferno inside armour, but still captive to the sensations it once elicited. It’s peaceful and quiet here, aside from the occasional spark from the sap of too young a log. Then he smells her again, it’s earthy and sugary and it’s as sweet as the day he first sensed it. 

_In the dead of the night, it comes to him. Whispers in the dark ask are you ready to join the Maker’s side? Yes I am ready, is his reply._


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I thought I was done with this fic, but you know, sad headcanons keep coming back to me and now I've finished the Martyr's Regret I realised I didn't really have a proper epilogue for this one. So here it is, you finally get to meet my previously unnamed Lavellan. A big thankyou to Swindlefingers (Solas-you-Nerd) for looking over this and crying with me about Samson.

Braith Lavellan sits on the bed. There is little to pack away. Clothes for the chantry she bundles into piles, the only thing she keeps aside is a flag of Kirkwall neatly folded. There will be Blacksmithing tools and metalwork leathers to dispose of too, but that’s for later. Nevertheless that’s it, there is nothing else, nothing personal to remind her of him, no physical manifestation of how, for a time, hero and villain were _right_ for each other.

The battered old trunk stamped with the heraldry of Kirkwall sits empty. She had bought this for a few pieces of gold on her journeys after the inquisition was over, after Divine Victoria sat on the Sunburst throne. When she gave it to him, he had furrowed his brow, smiled weakly and rubbed his fist on his chest. She frowned and thought maybe it was the wrong kind of gift to give him, too much memory of a past life, but then he had kissed her with an intensity that could only lead to more. For a time she forgot about the smile that didn’t reach his eyes and remembered only the euphoria of passion that followed.

As she packs the life she had with him away and drags the trunk to the door, dirt and dust fall from the wall. She notices how loose the stone is behind where the trunk sat and bends to find a large loose brick poking out from the wall. Braith dislodges it to reveal a cavity. In its recess, just over a foot wide, a wooden box.

She drags it from its snug location and blows what looks to be a fresh fall of dirt from the top. The box is worn, and looks fire damaged. On the top are two letters, RS, engraved on tarnished brass. There’s a brass lock, also discoloured but no key, but it doesn’t matter, she can see the lid is not locked. When she opens it, she finds a small pouch made of Silk Brocade tied tightly with twine and a stack of envelopes, carefully marked. She takes the box and its contents and sits back on the bed.

The top envelope is marked “read first, Braith” in Samson’s unmistakable hand. She laughs. He’s hidden these for a long time, but it appears he intended for her to find it this time.

Inside the first envelope, a scrap of paper, weathered, stained, and barely holding together, when she unfolds it, she recognises it instantly. It’s something Cullen retrieved from his cell when he first came to Skyhold. She recalled its contents well, for they were bleak. She also recollects ordering it returned to its hiding place. That was a long time ago.

_I am not without fear, of you and for what you stand. When I see you, I’m struck, not by the mark, not by the power you wield, but the look in your eyes. It’s like staring at a dragon, steely, unmoving. It speaks of how unbreakable you are. In them, I see the reflection of my failure and the devastation of my Templars. Who is the monster?_

_My face is sallow, tinged with a sickness that you only see in those with a wasting disease. But I am not wasting, far from it. The red ~~gives~~ \-- gave -- me a power I have never felt before. Once I was but a mere child given to the Templars. The blue made me stronger and my faith kept me honest – it still keeps me honest. I fight for them, and the Maker himself would not deny that my intentions were as honest as yours and your inquisitions. I had a simple plan, a good death for the men and women under my command._

_You took that away._

_If it weren’t for these chains, these bars, your minders, your soldiers and Rutherford, I would steal myself over the edge of the broken floor in the dungeon. If you were close by, I would grab, hold you tight and take you with me._

The contents of the second letter are new to her, the first time she has laid eyes on this one.

_You’re nothing but another tool of the Chantry, given to destroy or bind us again to its will. It’s no wonder I sought to usurp you? I’ve no desire to be bound yet again, but here I am, you’ve done just that._

_I find it strange for an elf to ally with them this way. Don’t you realise that the Chantry, by its dogma and actions, will destroy all those that oppose them and convert the rest? Even you, as you sit upon your throne won’t be immune if you cross them as your people did in the past._

_That’s why I sought to extinguish them, why I aligned myself as I did. I wish to see them fall like they did in Kirkwall. A lowly guttersnipe has redemption. Your people and I have much in common on that front. They too know a chantry by any other name is still a chantry. Is this what the inquisition will become? Bigoted, domineering, full of crusaders on exalted marches? Or do you stand under your own banner and identify it a righteous calling?_

_What you have here is tyranny by a pleasant name and a pleasant face. You took away the red, you made me a slave to your inquisition, you’re no better than they are. You’re a monster, just as much as me. Deny it if you must, if it helps you sleep at night._

Braith sighs heavily at the chastisement and opens the third envelope. The writing is shaky and barely legible this time.

_You’re definitely a dragon. I can see it your eyes. Today I hurt so badly. It’s just not fucking working. Then you gave me that fucking book. My face hurts from that punch. Fuck you and your Inquisition. Fuck you and the precious Commander._

Braith’s fists clench and unclench as she drops the letter. She debates whether to continue reading more of the letters, but he meant for her to see them so she picks up the fourth. It’s short, barely a strip of the paper.

_You are like sunlight and fire. You burn me. I keep thinking is this real as I stand amongst flames. Is what happened on the ramparts real? I must be going mad. That didn’t happen. You’re a monster to make me feel this way. Definitely a monster._

The fifth letter is longer, the writing neater, the words flow patiently over the page.

_So it’s done, you’ve slain the Magister. Then you came to me and I thought it was a dream, that bump on my head making me think you were here. But when I woke, you were in my arms, and no, not a dream._

_I haven’t stopped thinking of you since you left this room, your smell, the feel of your skin. How dark your hair is, how the skin of your belly and thighs is soft compared to your hard and resolute gaze. How your heat left me wanting so much more._

_You’re a monster, a dragon, worse still, a demon crueller than what the harrowing halls of the circle can summon._

_Do you know why I think this? Because only you could do this to me, not the blue or even the want of the red, you. Lips inviting and indulgent, eyes brighter than any evil spirit I’ve come across. Your smell, Maker, that fucking flower, like you knew I had a weakness. You seduced me. To what end? If you don’t return I know it’s because you wish to manipulate me, I won’t be deceived._

The sixth letter is dated two years ago. She knows the date and gives a sad smile. Dried royal elfroot flowers fall from the envelope.

_It’s so hard without you here, only hard labour can stave off the hunger, and when I return to the cottage I eat quickly so I can go to bed before my mind has time to register what’s going on. Not that it’s much better, sleeping is worse these days. I still dream about all of them, and Maddox. What their last days must have been like. Then I dream of Corypheus, the promises he made to us that were broken. After, when I wake it’s as though I’ve already lost my mind and the ravage of transformation has hit me. I’m in a cold sweat, sheets and clothes soaked, so much so I’ve taken to sleeping naked._

_There are days where I’m sure I’m hallucinating, about this place, about you. I worry that next time I see you, all that my mind will allow is a vision of you as a demon, the one that first bewitched me._

_It’s been four days now, maybe the next time you’re home, I’ll be free of this curse. Then I will hold you tight and kiss you in all places. Come home soon, I need you here._

The seventh letter is dated only two full moons prior.

_This is it, I can feel it. No longer gnawing at my gut, but blisters and burns that appear between the crevices of my toes and between my fingers. It hurts. When I’m not in pain I am sleepy. The dreams are quieter now, like I have a true slumber. You come to me in the dark, in Skyhold. We make love and I can feel and smell you. It feels so bloody real._

_The poultices help, the healer that comes from the village I find annoying, but the little dwarf from the Chantry, I like her. She takes no nonsense and the brew that she makes – doesn’t taste the same when made by another. Although she’s chatty, she never asks much, or questions, I think she knows who I am, but never mentions it, she just lets me talk. I must thank you for insisting they come, for the Chantry under the current Divine I could have served to the end of my days. One more thing that I wish had happened during my lifetime._

_There is much changed in me. I feel happy. Between bouts of pain that make me surlier than I’ve ever been. You chide me on that half smug grin, but when I see you naked, erupting with desire and want for me, how could I not wear it? You’ll be home tomorrow, and I’ll wear this damn grin for the rest of the day._

The last envelope simply has her name on the outside. As she unfolds the letter, a dried flower that she knows is Andraste’s Grace falls out. These they picked from the side of a mountain on their first spring in the cottage.

_Braith, my beautiful monster. I thought us so different, but you showed me that wasn’t the case. I’ve never been a man to show my feelings, you know that. You knew my heart better than anyone. Open the pouch, know what it took for me to resist, know that it was you and it will be you into eternity._

Braith struggles to open the pouch the twine is tightly bound. She rips a fingernail in the process, but it’s finally undone. Inside three items wrapped in paper and again labelled by number. She unwraps the first.

It’s a vial of blue lyrium.

_This bought me honour and honest labour in the service of the Maker._

Her eyes widen at the second, it’s a vial of red lyrium.

_This bought me dishonour, shame and a martyr’s regret._

She drops the vial of red before picking up the third.

In it, another lyrium vial, on a chain this time and empty, save for what look to be dried flower petals.

_This, I drank from greedily before I filled it back up with hope and love for you. I kept it with me always. Andraste’s Grace was always your flower, it looked kindly upon me when the world was barren and I had nothing left. Your Vallaslin, I always knew as Mythal’s, and you were my protector, my own personal Goddess of Justice. I would echo the words of the first letter I wrote and kept hidden, but this time without malice: If you were close by, I would grab, hold you tight and take you with me. x S_

“Ar lasa mala revas, emma lath,” she whispers. Braith clutches the vial close to her heart and lets the tears fall.


End file.
